One and the Same
by SaoryEmanoelle
Summary: An Alan Wake one shot based off Nightwish's movie "Imaginaerum". I hope you enjoy.


**This one shot came to me after watching Imaginaerum. Probably spoilers below?**

**Anyway, the fate of one character from the movie (Which is amazing by the way and left me speechless because it's so good) fits perfectly, I think, for Alan Wake (If you've watched the movie, you definitely know who I'm talking about ;P). As cruel as it may be, I just couldn't stop with the comparisons... When Zane told A****lan about going deeper he wondered if he was talking about the Dark Place or insanity. "Guess they're one and the same". Imaginaerum deals with the idea of Insanity as we know it while Alan Wake brings it in the form of the Dark Place. In the end, they are the exact same thing and the way everything is made in order for them (The main characters) to wake up and realize what's been happening hit me really hard. Feels. These things always makes me ;_; So I made this thing here. It's very simple but I hope you enjoy reading it anyway ^_^.**

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He finally understood.

He pulled the chair close to him and sat down, his look vague, his mind empty. Alan Wake had finally comprehended how long he had been there, in the Dark Place. He still didn't know why he was alive after so long; for what reasons had they kept him alive? Why? He no longer cared to know. He was old even though it didn't look like it; his features remained the same, his hair was still lively brown and silky. His blue eyes shined just as they did decades ago but not with life; they shined with aspiration. Aspiration for freedom.

His memory hadn't failed him once during the 35 years he had spent in there. In fact, it was better and he swore he could remember each and every experience he had had in his life. Incredible as it was, he wished it hadn't happened. He could feel his traumatic experiences crawling in his skin, hear accusing and violent voices numbing his mind... He could feel the pain of not having known his father with more intensity than ever before and he remembered the last time he saw his wife.

The typewriter would no longer work, not after being thrown against the floor. Return wasn't finished and it would never be. Alan didn't care. No anymore.

He stared to the owl that had kept him company for so many years in the room's wall. Behind him, Huginn and Muninn tortured him with the most cruel memories and thoughts they could invoke and he still didn't care. He looked around the room he'd spent most of his time in; he knew it thoroughly. From the dark spots in the upper right corner to the cracks that projected from under the table and close to the door. He knew this place as he knew himself, but the Dark Place was still something unknown. The only thing he was certain of was that things had worsened when he tried to escape. That was a fact and he knew that no one, not even a creator such as himself, could ever change the past.

His only ally was long gone. Alan didn't miss him or at least he manipulated himself enough into believing in that. He had learned to live alone. He had learned to keep his feelings away most of the time. He had learned to protect himself while in the growing darkness. Now, he looked back with disinterest; what good had it done to him?

The man had left his flashlight over the table where the typewriter should be, its light pointed at his chest, as if marking a target. He laughed without finding that funny and without realizing he was tearing up. There was nothing funny about the tragic turn his life had taken. His best friend had been murdered; his wife became ill. There was no one waiting at home.

Alan reloaded the his pistol automatically without even realizing it. Who did he want to fool? There was nothing left. Yet today, so many years later, he was nothing, nothing but a pawn for the darkness. He had written during decades and his Return came to be the return of forces unable to be fought against. If only he hadn't realized it too late. He looked at his flashlight, not really seeing it. The knot in his throat choked him again, as it always did every day of his life since he arrived in here. The writer stared into emptiness for long minutes while memories appeared fresh in his mind. Memories of everything he had lost.

He pointed the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. 


End file.
